A Scandal in the Schoolyard
by FaramirsBlessing
Summary: Kid!lock, Kid!John - A little one-shot about a friendless black-haired boy who goes through a rough day in the schoolyard.


**A/N: This story was actually written for a Theology course and I turned it in mostly as a joke because I literally couldn't think of an idea, so I wrote a fanfiction. My teacher absolutely loved it- she made me read it out loud to the entire class and my nerdy friends were dying by the end, although everyone else didn't understand that it was a fanfiction, not even my teacher. *sigh* Ah, those without fandoms, what do they do? Anyway, enjoy the story!**

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It was autumn. The leaves were changing, the weather was biting cold. In a schoolyard near a park in London, there stood a little boy. He was 8, maybe 9. He was as skinny as a stick and tall for his age. His mother always taught him that he had to be dressed properly, so he wore a plain white button-up shirt that he had mostly tucked in, but a duck-tail in the back showed where he had missed. He also wore plain black shorts and oxfords with knee-high socks, although he was skinny enough that the socks hung loosely around his shins. His black hair curled gently over his head, falling neatly to rest on his white brow. His cheekbones were high and his face shrewder than that of a normal child. He stood near an old willow tree, watching the other children on the swings while fiddling with a willow wand. His eyes were grey and sharp; they missed nothing. They saw every leaf drop to the ground, every squirrel's frenzied motion, everyone's judging looks.

If you asked the other children about him, they'd say he was strange. Queer. Odd. Scary.

There was another boy sitting nearby, playing with marbles. The others knew very little about him too. He was shy, they might say. Quiet as a mouse, meek as a lamb. He was dressed in a green sweater, sitting cross-legged like a Turk, with his light brown hair neatly fashioned in a military style. There was no nonsense about him. He was neat, quiet, and methodical. But he was smart. Every once and a while he would look over at the black-haired boy and eye him with concern. He knew the boy didn't belong, but he knew he could fend for himself. He watched the proceedings carefully. His name was John.

The other children on the swings took no notice of John, but they actively ridiculed the black-haired boy. They called him names. Swinging back and forth on the swings, one little girl called out:

"Hey, Freak!"

The black-haired boy looked up, still fiddling with the willow wand.

"I have a name," he said defiantly.

"Yeah, but Freak suits you better," a boy named Andy yelled, his dim, watery brown eyes sparking with cruel pleasure.

"Shut up, Andy," the black-haired boy said.

"Yeah, shut up, Andy," the girl echoed.

Andy stared at the girl accusingly.

"What do you mean, Sally?" he hissed at her. "I thought you didn't-"

"Sh!" Sally replied. "I'm playing a trick."

"Come here so we can play with you!" she called out to the black-haired boy.

The boy, even though he was suspicious of everyone and everything, took a cautious step forward. John watched him.

"Do you really want to play with me?" the black-haired boy asked dubiously.

"Of course!" Sally replied. "I don't want to play with Andy anymore. I would like to play with you for a change. I'm tired of being mean."

The boy took another step forward, out of the shade of the willow tree.

"Really?" he questioned.

"Really." To show she was sincere, she motioned Andy off the other swing. She turned to wink at him and he smirked.

The black-haired boy had not seen the two's secret correspondence and his lips turned up in a faint grin, his eyes lightening a little. John's eyes, however, darkened.

The black-haired boy ran forward, excited. When he reached the swing, he grabbed the chain, his eyes bright.

"Go ahead," Sally said. "Get on."

The boy eagerly jumped onto the swing and began to propel himself higher and higher. His eyes were bright and he was happy.

Sally turned to Andy, who was standing behind the swing set. She slowed her swing down and pointed to the black-haired boy, who was swinging high and fast enough to make the swing set jump. Andy nodded at her and took up a rock about the size of his palm. He aimed and threw it hard at the black-haired boy's back.

The boy's body jerked, he screamed, and he tumbled off the swing while it was still high in the air.

John, who had been observing this episode, clutched tightly at a marble in his hand. He watched, terrified, as the black-haired boy landed hard on the gravel. Sally and Andy laughed. John held his breath, his brown eyes wide and worried.

"Get up!" Andy yelled.

"Yeah, Freak, I'm sure you're smart enough to pick yourself off the ground!"

John pulled himself onto his knees, straining his eyes to see if the prostrate boy would move.

"Come on," he whispered. "Please get up."

After another moment of tense silence on John's part and jeering on the others', the black-haired boy pushed himself onto his knees, supporting his aching body with his hands.

His lip was split and bleeding and a faint trail of blood dripped from his sable curls onto his white forehead. The boy couldn't feel one of his arms, but he was aware of stinging pain on the pads of his hands, his knees, and his elbows. The boy struggled to sit up and eyed Sally and Andy with regret and pain.

"You all right, Freak?" Sally jeered.

The boy shook his head and climbed to his feet.

He took a last sad glance at Sally and Andy, and then limped away, his numb arm cradled against his chest.

"See you, Freak!" Andy sneered.

Sally and Andy laughed as the black-haired boy hobbled away. John watched him, feeling awful. He eyed the boy as he slowly, painfully walked to the willow tree, eventually collapsing on the other side of the trunk opposite John.

John picked at the sleeve of his green sweater nervously. He couldn't decide whether to approach the boy, who was beginning to cry softly. John's heart ached at the thought of another in pain, but certain thoughts restrained him from going to the injured boy. The other children called the black-haired boy names. John didn't approve of the names the others called him, but the boy _was _rather intimidating. He was brilliant- he was two grade levels ahead in math and English and the teacher even allowed him to perform chemistry experiments while all the others had to watch a butterfly grow.

But he was a strange boy. The same day the others had watched the butterfly leave its cocoon, he had poured chemicals on one of its wings. While all the other children screamed and ran for the teacher, his grey eyes watched the wing erode with a calm and critical gaze.

The same day the black-haired boy was sent to the guidance counselor. The next everyone started calling him names.

Everyone except John. John noticed that the names hurt the boy, no matter how much his stoic face managed to hide it from the others. John saw many things the others didn't. The black-haired boy's eyes were smart, but the names had cut deep, and his eyes had gained a level of bitterness and loneliness. John saw this all and wished it away.

_You can't just wish it away! _a little voice in his head said. _You have to do something about it._

_Go see if he's all right._

John heard this voice and after a moment told himself it was right. He realized he didn't care what the other children thought of the boy. He knew he might be a target if he spoke to the black-haired boy, but he didn't really mind. Everyone was entitled to an opinion, but that didn't mean the opinion was right. The others' opinions were hasty and ill-judged. John was going to make sure the other boy was all right.

John gathered up his marbles, organized them neatly, and placed them in his pocket. He got up and peeked around the trunk to the other side of the tree.

The black-haired boy had been crying, but he had regained his composure and was now examining his cuts and scrapes. He was squinting at his bleeding hand with critical eyes.

John took a deep breath and walked to the other side of the tree. The black-haired boy's head shot up and his grey eyes swept over John quickly.

This short examination made John nervous and he fidgeted with his sweater for a moment. The black-haired boy's lips twitched in the shadow of an anxious frown, then his disconcerting gaze stopped on John's face.

"Hullo," John said.

"'Lo," the other boy responded.

"I saw you fall off the swing and wanted to see if-"

The black-haired boy's eyes darkened in suspicion.

"I'm fine," he said sharply.

John blinked.

"Are you-"

"I'm sure."

John was silent for a moment, staring at the boy's bloody knee.

"I could help you," John said.

"I don't need you," the other boy snapped. "I don't need anyone."

"Of course not. Why would you?"

There was another long silence in which the black-haired boy and John eyed each other. John finally sighed and backed up a step.

"I'll be on the other side of the tree if you decide you need help." He began to walk away, but he turned around. "My name is John," he said.

Then he was gone.

The black-haired boy thought about John for a moment. _There really was no need for him to tell me his name, _he thought, _I know it already. _The black-haired boy had a peculiar practice of storing away everyone's names and habits. None of the other children took much notice of John, but this boy had long been observing him with care. He was quiet and kind, but there was fire hidden behind his eyes. He was fiercely loyal as to those he cared about. If anyone ever picked on his little sister, John was quick to defend her or take her away. John did not take enjoyment in other people's pain. The day the black-haired boy had been sent to the guidance counselor's, John had not laughed or taunted. He had simply watched, his eyes sad. He was not quick to judge, but quick to defend. The idea of friendship and kindness was alien to the black-haired boy, but he knew that if he had a friend, it would be John.

He sighed, then thought again about how John had thought to tell him his name. A name was something distinctly personal, distinctly special. A name had the power to give life to some inanimate objects and meaning to others. By not bothering to call the black-haired boy by his name, Sally and Andy had smeared his individuality and his humanity. The black-haired boy fidgeted and toyed with the grass at his feet. By telling him his name, John had empowered the black-haired boy to pull down some of his walls. He wasn't afraid to go to John.

At the same time, the black-haired boy was wary of so-called "friends." He was used to being alone with science and logic- he almost feared the idea of a friend. He examined his bleeding knee and winced when he tried to move it. These other children who had "befriended" him had no qualms about hurting him- would John?

The black-haired boy sat for another moment in anxious thought, then shrugged and struggled to his feet. His bleeding knees and elbows ached and he massaged his numb arm with one hand. He was frightened of asking anyone for anything, but John's offer of aid had touched the boy's heart. He took a deep breath and decided to go to John for help.

He hobbled over to the other side of the tree, where John was sorting through his marbles. The black-haired boy cradled his arm against his chest, suddenly afraid. He was used to being alone, fending for himself. The idea of having someone else help him was almost repulsive. He started to back away before John noticed him, when he involuntarily blurted out-

"John."

This was hardly more than a whisper, but it gave the black-haired boy courage. That was all he really needed.

"John, look," he said, louder this time.

John looked up and saw the black-haired boy standing at his feet, bleeding and hurt. John was surprised- he had expected the other boy to take care of himself. But he was indeed happy that the other boy had come to him for aid.

"John, would you help me?"

John nodded, smiled, and got up.

"I'll walk to the nurse's with you," John offered, taking the black-haired boy's arm. The black-haired boy flinched.

"Ow!" he cried, pulling his arm away. "You're hurting me!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," John said apologetically.

He reached forward to take the boy's arm again, the opposite one this time, but the boy pulled away, his grey eyes sharp and frightened.

"I promise I won't hurt you," John said.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The black-haired boy nodded slowly and allowed John to take his arm again and help him to the nurse's. His tired body felt relief at John's supporting grip and he nodded with approval.

"You'd be a good doctor, John," the black-haired boy said admiringly, a faint smile gracing his lips.

John grinned.

Some ten minutes later, the black-haired boy and John were sitting under the willow tree again, playing with marbles. The black-haired boy was covered in band-aids and he held an ice pack to his numb arm. He picked at a blue marble and said something quietly to John. John nodded and smiled.

"Did you know your name means 'God is gracious?'" the black-haired boy asked after a moment.

"Yes. That's why my mum chose it," John said.

"Oh. My name means 'fair-haired,'" the black-haired boy said.

John looked up and smiled.

"But your hair is black."

"It was lighter when I was younger," the black-haired boy explained. "It got dark when I was four."

John nodded in understanding.

"What is your name?" he asked.

There was a moment of silence and then the black-haired boy's grey eyes met John's brown ones.

"My name is Sherlock," he said.

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**Thanks so much for reading! Reviews are much appreciated!**


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